


Not A Prissy Romance Movie

by QuidProCrow



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst and Humor, Dysfunctional Relationships, M/M, Microwaves, Romance, bad metaphors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-17
Updated: 2011-06-17
Packaged: 2017-10-20 12:04:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/212594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuidProCrow/pseuds/QuidProCrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Francis and Arthur break up for the fifth time, Matthew gives strange advice, Alfred makes bad relationship metaphors, things are thrown, comparisons are made, laundry is done, people are sketched, and everything is eventually settled at nine-thirty at night in near-total darkness with cigarettes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not A Prissy Romance Movie

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to originally be a very very short one-shot.  
> It became a very very long one-shot based on an idea I had about a month ago and never finished.
> 
> I regret nothing, I tell you.

All in all, Francis is used to people throwing things at him. His father had been a huge fan of the ordeal in general, his current roommate, in total fun, has thrown everything from stuffed birds to the occasional dinner plate at him, and his past three girlfriends (who hadn't lasted very long at all) had favored the throwing of kitchen utensils.

Francis is still trying to explain that one to his dorm adviser, who is terribly curious as to what had caused the large holes in the side of his room.

Despite his deep friendship with things of the projectile manner, he has never had papers- scores and scores of papers, sheet music and poetry and past essays and unfinished songs- thrown at him.

Until right now. This very second. In the middle of the courtyard.

By his boyfriend.

"You- you _bastard,_ you bloody _tosser,_ you-"

And Francis is met with another haphazardly flung fistful of papers, a few bearing the names of Tchaikovsky and Bach.

"Arthur, I am sure these composers would not take kindly to having their classics thrown at people," Francis says, smoothing out one of the crumpled papers. "If you are going to continue, perhaps select some less valuable music?"

Francis is wrong to make such a suggestion; he's then hit with what feels like a rather large and possibly lethal book that proceeds to instantly floor him.

"Spoken too soon, have I?" he mutters into the concrete, trying not to imagine the bruise that he knows is already curling over his skin.

"You know, I wasted _Les Miserables_ on you," Arthur hisses, stalking over to stand beside him.

"That is your fault. You decided to throw it."

"Well- well-"

Francis grins, because he adores being able to make Arthur stumble over his words like that. He turns over and watches him from the ground, all tall figure and jade eyes and flushed face.

"- _you_ shouldn't have decided to be an absolute idiot, you know, and- and then this whole _spectacle_ wouldn't have happened."

"Oh, so it is _my_ fault."

"Francis, it's _always_ your fault. _Always_."

 _"Non._ The dinner was not my fault."

"Yes, but what happened after the dinner _was_."

"It was not! I was simply trying to assist her-"

"Yes, Francis, because 'assisting' means 'flirting,' and 'flirting' means 'spending the night with.'"

"That is a rather large leap of phrases."

"Alright, Francis, that's- that's it. I'm done, okay?"

"Pardon?"

Arthur bends down, picks up the scores and scores of papers, the sheet music and poetry and past essays and unfinished songs, puts them back in his bag. He pulls _Les Miserables_ out from underneath Francis, who tries not to think too deeply into this situation, because it's happened before, it has, and he knows what's coming next, but maybe this time it'll be different, maybe this time he can laugh it off, maybe this time- 

Arthur stands, turns and sighs, and Francis can feel it already.

"I'm leaving."

"Leaving in general, or-"

 _"Leaving,_ Francis."

"….oh. Ah, Arthur-"

 _"Leaving."_

He stalks off, shoes slamming against the pavement, leaving Francis lying on the ground.

It is the fifth time in two months that they've broken up.

 _Must be a record,_ Francis thinks with a groan, rolling back over to press his face into the concrete again.

-

They break up like clockwork, always exact, at the same time, every few weeks. They crumble apart with drawn-out fights and jealous eyes and stressful situations, and then they stitch themselves back together with phone calls and silent offerings and dinners. The whole thing is like breathing to them, a cycle, easy and constant and simple. It just happens, and they accept that, let it roll. They put up with the screaming and the fighting and the empty aches and the _space._

Perhaps that's why they do it- to make sure that the other knows that they're _there,_ they're _real,_ they're _alive._ Because the entire situation is truly foreign to them, and it's like walking in pins and needles, it is, trying to keep it up and keep it right, trying to _breathe._

Francis thinks it's perfect, thinks it's wonderful, something beautiful, thinks they fit together in a special way, like jagged puzzle pieces or broken gears. He tries not to let it get to him, treats the whole thing like a game, like something he can control, like an old toy he can come back to after months and play with like nothing happened.

Sometimes, he wonders whether he thinks that about Arthur or their relationship, and he finds he can't tell the difference.

"This isn't healthy, you know," Matthew says, as usual, for the fifth time (five breakups, five lectures), from behind his shields of cigarette smoke and philosophy textbooks, "really, Francis. All you two do is hurt each other. You've broken up five times. That's more than Alfred has dated girls."

"Wonderful comparison," Francis says.

"Really. There is something seriously wrong with this."

"Ah, not exactly. We have a very wonderful relationship during the times when we _are_ together."

"And then you'll fight over something stupid and break up again. I think if you two fools were meant to be together, you wouldn't be breaking up so much."

 _(And that's what they all are, really, fools.)_

"Or that is just how our relationship is supposed to work."

" _Or_ you're making excuses. This is stupid, Francis. Maybe- maybe you should just stop this and leave it as it is," Matthew counters. Francis sits and pretends that those words don't wake him up from everything and that they don't _hurt_.

"I- that is the thing," he eventually says, running his hands through his hair. "I- I cannot. Matthew- I really do love him."

"Maybe you should show it."

-

Arthur is in the habit of merely pretending that _everything is fine and nothing hurts._ It's a skill he's spent time cultivating from an early age, and he does it well- he builds up walls, hides behind bitter comments and cynical laughter, acts like nothing goes wrong.

But at night, lying in insomniac silence, he starts thinking, and everything starts hurting more than he could have imagined. Everything gets piled on, everything, all the thoughts and the situations and the annoying friends and the papers and (he inhales sharply, because he'd purposely forgotten this, tucked it away behind other things, more important things)- _Francis._

Arthur is fully aware that their relationship is probably the textbook example of 'How Not To Live Ones Life.' He knows that, and he tries to remember that, but he just- can't. Even if he tries and treats it (treats the relationship, treats Francis) like it doesn't matter, he knows, somewhere, it does. He knows he's lying. He loves him, he does, that fool, that flirtatious fool, and no matter how many times he breaks up with him, no matter how many times they both fight and fail and founder, he still does.

 _(And that's what they_ both _are, really. Fools.)_

Their relationship- breaking apart, coming back together- is just so much like breathing that sometimes Arthur forgets how equally fragile it all is.

Arthur uses Francis, he does, uses their relationship again and again and again, like something he can control, like an old toy he can come back to after months and play with like nothing happened.

Sometimes, he can't tell the difference between treating their relationship and treating Francis that way.

"Strange kind of love," Alfred says, dividing his attention between his soda and Arthur, who's hunted him down, because even if he can barely stand Alfred's presence sometimes, he _listens,_ at the very least. "I don't- really know what to say, Artie."

"Alfred, my name is Arthur. Do not shorten it and make it sound like the nickname of an out-of-work porn star."

"Hey, if you grew one of those mustaches like they had in the 70s-"

 _"Alfred."_

"Just trying to make you _feel_ better. Maybe- maybe this is how it should be, though. You know? Maybe you guys should, you know, just- take a break for a really long while and leave it as it is. Maybe."

"We can't," Arthur whispers, and his mind screams _I can't I can't I can't._ "I love him."

"How do you know he loves you too?"

"That is the _least_ supportive statement I have ever heard from you."

"Hey, man, I'm just _saying._ Maybe you need to tell _him_ that."

 _What a way to wake up to a situation,_ Arthur thinks, closing his eyes.

-

"It felt a bit different this time," Francis says, "as if- he really did mean it."

"Well, breaking up with someone five times in a row usually means something."

-

"I just- I sounded so _final,_ and that wasn't- how I'd intended it," Arthur murmurs.

"….you should fix that."

-

"I still think it's a horrible relationship," Matthew says, flipping through the pages of one of his text books. He and Alfred sit in the back of the library, studying while making the occasional casual (or not so casual) comments about the recent break up.

"I don't think it's all _that_ bad," Alfred replies, drumming his fingers against the paper of his notebook, "I mean, yeah, it's kind of strange-"

 _"Obsessive."_

"Nah, not obsessive- it's kinda like- well, they're just trying to figure it all out, aren't they? Just like everybody else."

"People usually don't take five tries to figure each other out."

" _Usually_! There's always an _exception_! And those two are the exception right now!"

"I still don't like it. It won't work out."

"….maybe it's like a microwave," Alfred then says, leaning back in his chair, and Matthew slowly looks up, eyebrow raising in the process.

"Could you explain that one so I know whether or not to feel scared for my life, Alfred?"

"Well, y'know, it's like- sometimes a relationship gets a little stale, okay? Or cold, okay? So then you just have to put it in the microwave for a while and let it heat up and then you take it out and BAM! Everything's wonderful again! And then you just have to do that a couple times just because, you know. Sometimes it needs that. But then you successfully heat up your relationship and then you're good! So- so it's a microwave relationship!"

"….you know, that's not that bad of a metaphor. I don't really feel any better about the relationship, though."

"Well- let's just see what happens, okay?"

-

Arthur does his laundry every Tuesday.

Religiously.

He dedicates two hours to the delicate task of making sure nearly every single article of clothing he owns is perfectly clean, perfectly pressed, perfectly ironed. And this Tuesday, there he is, in the laundromat around the corner, because it's cheaper than the one on campus. He's organized everything into careful piles, color-coordinated, fabric-coordinated, and he sits off to the side, reveling in the rhythmic sounds of the washer and dryers around him.

It helps takes his mind off things, helps him concentrate- helps him set certain things straight.

 _(But he avoids that one thing, because really._ Really _. They're both fools.)_

And it's when Arthur's finished washing everything that he notices it- notices the shirt that sneaked in amongst his own, notices the silk fabric with the pearl buttons, and his face contorts into an expression that terrifies the other patrons of the laundromat.

That's how Arthur finds himself at the door of Francis' room, shirt in hand, frown still stuck on his face. He takes a few deep breaths (about fifteen, actually) before he knocks, fingers shaking, because _it's_ _too soon, for the love of God, it's only been what, four days, and I just- dammit, I don't know what to say, what I should do, and-_

Francis opens the door, eyebrows raised, expression curious, and the smirk that curls onto his face once he sees the shirt seals _everything_ , and the rage of the world flares into Arthur's face.

"I should have known you had kleptomaniac tendencies," is what Francis says, and Arthur's jade eyes narrow at the comment, because Francis has that way, that _exact_ way, of creating waves of sheer anger within him.

 _Dammit._

"Will you _shut up?_ Can you comprehend that, Bonnefoy, shutting that damn mouth of yours for five precious seconds of my life?" he retorts, shoving the shirt against Francis' chest, and Francis takes it, all smiles, crystal eyes alight. "You just left it with my clothes, is all."

"You washed this, did you not? Ug, now it will smell like an _Englishman-"_

"No, it's going to smell like _fine, respectable_ laundry detergent, not that _cheap_ _cologne_ you _parade_ around in-"

"Cheap? You did not seem to think it was cheap before."

The words _sting,_ on the inside, and part of Arthur's facade splinters, and Francis' eyes widen as if he didn't mean it, but they can't take the words back, any of them, not at all.

"I took a temporary leave of my senses. I must have, in order to put up with a  
 _thing_ like _you_."

"Now _really,_ what _language,"_ Francis smiles, and it's a perfect rebound, and Arthur has thoughts of _oh my God I want to rebound my fist into your face and then we'll see who's smiling, will we?_

 _(But he won't, because he tells himself he shouldn't be like that, and it's not right, punching the person you love, but he doubts that, seriously, right now, because Francis brings out all the rage in all the worst ways.)_

"Yes, the language you _refuse_ to master correctly. Do me a favor, Bonnefoy, and promise me you'll never become a writer and butcher the English language in a further manner."

"You know, Kirkland, now that you have mentioned it, if I can successfully add 'annoying you' onto my day planner in that line of work, I am absolutely going to try for it," Francis says, his eyes glaring, and a cynical smile twists over Arthur's lips.

"I'd murder you in your sleep with your notebooks."

"What, would you shove paper down my throat?"

"Or I could beat you with it as a whole. Either way works for me. Time and place?"

"Are you, by any chance, trying to ask me out again?"

 _Damn you!_

Arthur slams the door shut in the echo of Francis' words, and he walks down the hallway, stiff and quick, sinking his nails into his palms. That's not how situations go, not at all, not by a long shot, and Francis always ruins them, ruins _everything-_

"Every damn thing," Arthur mutters, half to himself, half to the ringing silence of the hallways.

 _Fools. We are a giant collection of fools._

 _-_

Later on, Francis curls up on his bed, shirt in hand, the shirt Arthur had returned to him, and he hugs it tight to his chest and lets the scent wash over him.

-

Later on, Arthur stares at the bottle of Francis' cologne that was left under his bed, and tells himself he's not returning this.

-

Francis is an art major. He spends his free time sketching, breezing through sketchbooks and pencils and ideas. He usually draws at night, if he's not busy elsewhere or otherwise, and he sketches, goes through pages and pages until he falls asleep on top of rough paper and smooth pencil marks.

Lately, he sketches one thing, one thing only, tries to get it perfect, and he fails every time, because it's so hard to try and capture everything about someone in one simple portrait.

He's been trying to draw Arthur for _days._

Francis focuses on those narrowed eyes, that pinched expression, those _eyebrows-_ and he tries to recreate them, tries to get them down, tries to imagine them _smiling_ and not _glaring,_ and he _can't._

 _(Fools.)_

He's tired of it, he is, the fighting and the breaking up and the glares and the refusal to see everything clearly. He's tired of using Arthur like a doll, knows he shouldn't, knows he's a human being like everyone else, knows he should try harder, knows that the beautiful relationship he sees them as having doesn't exist.

 _I do not know how to fix this,_ he thinks, hugging his sketchbook to his chest, eyes closing, _but I want to._

Because it shouldn't be like this, their relationship; it shouldn't be broken and falling apart and as cruel as it is. Francis wonders why he took so long to realize how much it matters, how much it's not _love_ , and he wonders if there's anything left he can do to fix it.

So Francis sits and sketches and tries to figure out _how._

 _-_

Arthur studies literature, so of course, one would think, he'd have a very perfect idea as to what love should constitute.

He does not.

He's spoken about love before, in various forms, in various ways- knows what he thinks it is and what it's for and what it does and the different kinds there are- but when he gets down to it, when he sits and thinks about it, he can't figure out _why._

Because when it _happens,_ when you're actually in _love_ with someone, it doesn't go the way you expect it to, not at all, and he's done a myriad of stupid things that could've been avoided in regards to that.

But when you're finally in love, everything is _different._ It's warped and interesting and _everything all at once. Y_ ou make mistakes, and you use people, and you do everything you said you wouldn't, and if you're lucky you'll figure that out before you screw everything up entirely, and Arthur knows that he is beyond that point. It's just different, it is, being in love, different than just talking about love, because now everything is real and tangible and you can taste it, everything, everything in the world when you're in love.

(And then you mess up- Arthur messes up. Their relationship is built entirely upon fighting and he can't see them doing anything different. It just felt so _right_ that he forgot everything he was supposed to be and supposed to do and he's _ruined it,_ he has, this fifth time, this final time.)

Arthur curls inside himself in the back of the library, with his thoughts and Shakespeare and Dickinson and Tennyson and Byron, and he laments (figuratively) and wishes (literally) that things could be as easy as they are in literature and poetry.

Without the death.

The _early_ death, at least.

 _I want to fix this,_ he thinks, pressing against the bookshelves and wishing he could melt into them, _and I want to change things, dammit, and- and make everything right._

Arthur closes his eyes and filters through the literature and tries to think of something that _works._

-

They still avoid each other.

Every day, in every hallway, in every class, in every possible space over campus. They take different routes and scramble through fire escapes and deserted hallways and over desks in order to avoid each other and not come into contact.

Because above everything else, above the want for change, they are scared, stubborn adults in an unforgiving world.

 _(So they live their lives on pins and needles and tell the bathroom mirror that they regret nothing.)_

So everyone sees them as cowards- people like Alfred and Matthew, and their spectator eyes from the sidelines- but they're trying, in their off time, to think of ways to fix things, and their reasoning (exactly the same for both- because Francis is right, and they _do_ fit) is that the farther apart they are, the closer they'll be when they stitch everything back up.

What a flawed kind of logic; but then again, they are a flawed relationship.

 _(But flaws- and fools- always mesh, eventually.)_

-

It starts with little things.

Arthur leaves scones in front of Francis' room, and Francis promptly throws them out.

Francis leaves roses outside the door to Arthur's room, and Arthur promptly throws them out.

Then they start texting again- little things, of course, things like _I am going to class, Arthur_ and _I now. Because I'm walking to my own class. I don't need to know every single movement you make_ and _I just bought some coffee_ and _tea. Tea tea tea tea tea._

Things start fixing themselves, in a way.

-

When they finally come back together, it's not romantic.

They don't do romantic.

It starts like it always does- Arthur texts _street_ and Francis sends back _don't get hit by any cars_ and Arthur replies with _like you'd care because if I died you'd get all my valuable possessions and you'd be happy with that in itself._

And they sit, in the courtyard by the street, watching the flashing lights of the neon cars in front of them brighten up the nine-thirty-at-night sky. Francis offers Arthur a cigarette, and he swallows the comment of _you didn't poison them, did you_ and takes one, and they both sit there and smoke. Both of them, for a moment, think _it's going to be exactly the same as always,_ but they've been _really_ thinking, they have, and they know _it can't._

After a while, when there's embers on their fingertips and the scent of death in the air (how fitting), Arthur speaks.

"We have to do something different."

"We could switch cigarette brands."

"Francis, I mean- you know what I mean."

"I do. Forgive me for trying to lighten the mood."

"I don't think this is the kind of mood that can be lightened."

Francis pulls his cigarette from his mouth, sighs rings of smoke. "Would you rather we stopped?" is what he asks first.

"Stopped what?"

Francis shrugs, blue eyes fixed on the streetlamps or the cars or the remains of his cigarette. Anywhere but the person next to him. "Stopped- this. You know. Maybe- maybe that would be for the best."

Arthur pauses, and he looks down, eying the road ahead of them like it's the most interesting thing in the world. "Is that- what you want?"

"I do not really know. I just- I have been pretending, this entire time, that we have this absolutely wonderful relationship. That is- far from the reality of the situation."

"I know. I figured- we'd always get back together, so I could- _we_ could- hurt each other in any way we pleased and it wouldn't matter. But- it matters, doesn't it? We- we really screwed each other over."

"This is the part where we are supposed to make up, kiss passionately, discard our cigarettes and then join together for absolutely mind-blowing sex."

"This isn't some- some prissy romance movie, Francis," Arthur snorts, rolling his eyes, and Francis smiles a bit.

"It could be. Eventually."

"You mean, once we get past the fact that we're absolutely awful people?"

"Exactly."

Arthur pauses, crushes his cigarette in his hand, stares at the street again. "….do you think we could? I mean- we've broken up five times, Francis, five freakin' times where we just- fell apart. And- well, I mean, we obviously never really meant any of them, as we're still here right now, but- but we can't keep going like this. We have to- to set things straight."

"I love you," Francis then says, carefully examining the fingernails on his right hand, and Arthur stares, eyes wide.

"Francis, you- you just don't throw expressions around like that, you _git-"_

"I was not. I meant it, Arthur. I do."

Arthur clears his throat, looks away, and eventually finds himself looking at Francis again. And he takes in his appearance as best he can in the dim lights of the streetlamps and the neon cars, takes in the bright eyes and the blonde hair and the thin fingers and the way Francis makes everything _perfect,_ he does, just by being there. He can see it now- how much it means to him, this relationship, this whatever they have, and he thinks of losing it, thinks for a split second of leaving or not replying, and his heart _aches_ again. "….I do, too."

"I suppose that is the best I am getting?" Francis murmurs, smiling, and Arthur rolls his eyes, looks away this time.

"Damn straight."

"Perhaps- we could start over and do things properly. You know. Treat each other right. Try and fight less."

"I don't think we'll get very far on the second thing," Arthur mutters, a wry smile twitching his lips, and Francis laughs, the sound light and like air. "that's just the way we are. But- but we could, you know- maybe do things right this time. It's not like we have forever to try and fix things properly."

"Forever would be nice."

"I don't know if I could deal with your sorry ass forever, actually."

"….you know, now that you bring it up, I do not know if I could deal with your eyebrows forever," Francis muses, looking up at the indigo sky, and Arthur lets out a series of exasperated noises.

"Oh my _God,_ Francis, I _swear,_ I'm going to _kill_ you one day."

"Oh, not now, Arthur, we are in the middle of a very lovely conversation and we are making a lovely breakthrough."

"Right, right, breakthrough. I'll save the murdering for later."

They sit there for a while, for hours, trying to sort out the little things, the important things, the non-romantic things and the violent things, until everything falls into a kind of place and just _being_ like that, sort of, becomes like breathing to them. And they fix things, smooth everything over, make it easier and calmer and less of a game, less of a use-use situation, less of a broken doll they come back to when they get bored and pretend like nothing happened.

And now it _works_.

When they finally stand up, they can't see each other- it's too dark and all the cigarettes are gone and the embers have died.

 _"Now_ we make up, kiss passionately, discard the remains of our cigarettes, and then join together for absolutely mind-blowing sex," Francis says, a grin in his voice, and Arthur elbows him.

"No. God, no."

"But we have sufficiently reached 'prissy romance movie' status."

"No, no we have not. I will _die_ before I concede defeat to that phrase."

"Concede defeat, Arthur. It is easier."

Arthur finds Francis' hand, the one holding the empty cigarette box, and he takes it and pitches it straight at where he assumes Francis' head is.

He misses. 

"You have _terrible_ aim. My _God,_ that was- you had a perfect opportunity and you _absolutely ruined it."_

"Would you rather I lobbed _Les Miserables_ at you again?"

"I think we might be starting to go backwards."

"No, we're going forward. We're just going at a very slow and awkward rate."

"….like a prissy romance movie."

 _"Francis."_


End file.
